Don't Mince Words

I ran into The Schnauzer tonight on a walk home.  It has been nearly a year since we had our short-lived “relationship.”  He pulled over and asked me if I had time to talk or if I had to get home to “Dixie.”  That was impressive he remembered the dog’s name.  The last time I saw him, he yelled out a window “hey you.”

I chatted with him on the sidewalk where he pulled up his sweater and turned and said “look, I found someone to shave my back.”  My inner Meryl Streep don’t-laugh-at him said “wow, she’s a lucky girl.”  The practical side of me wondered if it was a Gilette product or something more functional by Black and Decker.

Whatever the case may be, he “misses” me and wants to go to dinner next week.  Since he’s 25 years younger than my last date, I may entertain the prospect.  Girl’s gotta eat.  Girl’s got no blog.

If anyone has learned anything in the year+ I’ve lived in Santa Barbara, it’s that I’ve barely dated or done anything blog-worthy.  So, in December when I was feeling generous, I loosened up my age requirements and let the 65 year-olds take a stab at the Marn.  As my Aunt says, “hello Daddy,” she also kindly pointed out that when the geezer goes, I can date their kids who are age-appropriate.  Win-win as they say.

My first attempt was with the Jersey Shore meets the Grand Canyon guy.  He meant well, but when all a guy has is showing you the inside of his RV, you have to think game over before it started.  Besides, my dye job and comb over was better than his.  My second session with the baby boomer cusp generation occurred 12 miles from my house.  My date selected a nice wine bar in which we decided to drink draft beer.  Three hours and two beers later I had John Belushi’s “Cheeseburger-Cheeseburger” routine in my head.  Who the hell books at date at dinner and then doesn’t even order an appetizer?  Mind you, I enjoyed his mild Bensonhurst accent, but a girl’s gotta eat.

When I got home, I bitched about manners (why book at date over the dinner hour) on Facebook and was kindly reminded by friends what an idiot of expectations I was.  ”Marna, you are dating a guy on a fixed income used to eating dinner at 4.  Beer is dessert him.”

When I got home, I sent him a thank you email, which my manners have taught me to do for decades, good or bad.  He wrote back and suggested a martini bar “near your place.”   Right, because the cost of two draft beers is the price of future admisission to my vagina.

I had a date Saturday night who accessorized.  I don’t mean in the belt, cuff links, and shoes kind of way either.  He wore a turquoise bead choker necklace that kind of looked like those candy necklaces I’d get as a kid, except the “candy” was blue.  But that’s not all.  There’s more.  He doubled up.  His second necklace was a gold chain choker.

Jersey Shore meets the indian reservation.  Next.

Team Honda

I was already thinking of my dad this week.  It would of been his 90th birthday.  But when I had a tire blow out, the memories flowed more.

A year before I could get my learner’s permit, my dad would take me to the Montgomery Wards parking lot to practice driving.  It gave him an excuse to get out of the house and away from my mom and it let me learn three-on-the-tree and quick clutch action.  In addition to acquiring great manual-drive skills, he taught me how to check the oil, radiator, and change a tire.  This knowledge has kept me less dependent on shifty service station guys and AAA.

While I was driving two visiting Chinese coworkers south to Los Angeles, I heard the rumble and knew I had a flat.  I put my hazards on like dad taught me and coasted off the road.  We got out of the car and the right rear was a goner.  So, I popped the trunk, pulled out the full-size spare, the wrench, and the jack and set up shop.  My coworkers marveled at my mechanical abilities.

“Mah-nah, you know how to do a lot of things,” they said.

Unfortunately, I couldn’t even throw my weight into the lug wrench to move the nuts.  I was going to have to break down and call my tow service.  As soon as I grabbed my phone, two guys in a SUV pulled up.  One loosened the lug nuts as the other began the slow twist of the jack.  Within five minutes, my 101 pit crew had silently changed my tire.  When they were off the ground, I thanked them and gave them WetOnes to clean their hands and offered them $20 for beer.

“No, no. It’s OK.  Merry Christmas,” one replied.

When we pulled back on the highway, one coworker asked if they were “Mexican.”  I told them I thought so, but as far as I was concerned, they were helpful, just like my dad.

Kramer and Tex

I’ve had dead dog ashes for a while. When I look at memorials online, they are too stodgy and don’t fit the personality of Kramer or Tex.  My idea has always been a small picture frame with a little test tube of ashes glued on.  Much better than a small pine box with dates on it.

I’m creative, but I’m not crafty.  If you looked at my abandoned scrapbooking project, you would assume my godson is three months old.  But I still like to cruise the aisles of Michaels to pickup seasonal things.  This weekend I stumbled upon a heart-shaped magnet box picture frame pair.  For $2.39 I grabbed it.   When I got home I popped the lids, put the pictures in, dumped the ashes, and placed the magnets on the refrigerator next to other family photos and my “Hard ons do not count as personal growth” magnet.  Dixie and I then went to hike the cliffs and dump the remaining ashes.

Sometimes when there is no creative pressure, you can find solutions in between wicker baskets and apple-scented candles.  Kramer and Tex are finally “at rest” and I have more space in my nightstand drawer.